While Henry watched them a half dozen who seemed by their bearing
and manner to be chiefs drew together at a point not far from him
and talked together earnestly. Now and then they looked toward
the forest, and he was quite sure that they were expecting
somebody, a person of importance. He became deeply interested.
He was lying in a dense clump of hazel bushes, flat upon his
stomach, his face raised but little above the ground. He would
have been hidden from the keenest eye only ten feet away, but the
faces of the chiefs outlined against the blazing firelight were
so clearly visible to him that he could see every change of
expression. They were fine-looking men, all of middle age, tall,
lean, their noses hooked, features cut clean and strong, and
their heads shaved, all except the defiant scalp lock, into which
the feather of an eagle was twisted. Their bodies were draped in
fine red or blue blankets, and they wore leggins and moccasins of
beautifully tanned deerskin.

They ceased talking presently, and Henry heard a distant wailing
note from the west. Some one in the camp replied with a cry in
kind, and then a silence fell upon them all. The chiefs stood
erect, looking toward the west. Henry knew that he whom they
expected was at hand.

The cry was repeated, but much nearer, and a warrior leaped into
the opening, in the full blaze of the firelight. He was entirely
naked save for a breech cloth and moccasins, and he was a wild
and savage figure. He stood for a moment or two, then faced the
chiefs, and, bowing before them, spoke a few words in the Wyandot
tongue-Henry knew already by his paint that he was a Wyandot.